Darker Than Crimson
by TWDAvengers
Summary: Dark fic, not for the feint hearted. Mentions of past self abuse and present abuse.


"Stupid! Fragile! Weak! Snivilling! Whining! Beautiful! Brilliant! Humans!" Each word was punctuated with a hard kick to the console of the TARDIS, which gave a defiant hum, but allowed it. She too, was mourning Rose Tyler. The whole world should have been mourning Rose Tyler. And, to a degree, they did. But not the way the Doctor felt it should. She deserved songs, legends, whole novels dedicated to her memory. She was such a brilliant, outstanding, brave little ape, the very best of humanity. And the world would remember her as no more then a random nineteen year old working in a little shop. God, how he loved a little shop.

Another tear trekked down his cheek and he didn't bother to wipe it. Pain radiated up his foot, through his leg, stopping somewhere around his left hip. His trainers, in retrospect, weren't the best thing to use when kicking the TARDIS. Then again, in retrospect, kicking the TARDIS wasn't a good idea either. But he was angry, Rasillion, was he angry. So, terribly, angry. The world was a faint, vivid shade of red even. He raked a harsh hand through his hair and cursed in a language forgotten to all but himself and the TARDIS. But she too, was angry. She was lonely, she was hurting and she was alive. Sometimes it was hard to remeber that. That the TARDIS was alive. Even with the telepathic connection, it still wasn't easy. He craved skin, he craved the sound of laughter, the gasps of surprise, the light behind human eyes.

"Rose Tyler, why did you have to be so brave? Why did you have to be so bloody stupid!" He slammed his fist into one of the twisting spirals around the large room. The swimming pool, the entertainment room, the lounge, all of them felt even larger now. God, he missed Rose. A swipe of his knuckles across his burning eyes, but he was still aching, aching so deep inside his soul that was so, terribly old and too use to the pain he felt now.

The best thing abut regenerations? They lost the scars. His last generation, the ninth, was covered in scars, scabs, angry, deep wounds that helped ebb the choking loneliness and regret and devestation that lingered in the darkest part of his mind. He traveled the universe, saw and saved and did such amazing things, yet he was drawn back to Earth again and again and again, without the faintest idea why. Maybe it was because humans were so similar to Timelords, and yet, so infinitely different. Weak, stupid little humans with one life, one heart, less then a century to spend in the living.

He stumbled into the hall, a bottle of gallifreyan liquor in his hand. He'd become quiet the expert at making it in the long, empty life he'd had. Swallowing a large, burning mouthful his head swam plesantly as he stumbled into the dark room. A knife, a large, wickedly curved, terribly sharpened knife settled into the new, unfamiliar groove of his long fingered hand. He still wasn't use to being so young, so limber. Settling down onto the chair, he kicked off his trainers and ripped off his socks, bare feet settling into the plush, white carpeting. The room was white, white walls, white floor, white chairs. All of it white. He settled the knife on his knee, dropped his coat to the floor and rolled the sleeves of his button down up to the elbow.

"How could I be so stupid?! These humans, these weak, fickle, stupid human beings. These brilliant, creative, kind, gloriously receptive and preservative little apes. They outlast so much, and yet snuff out like a weak flame in a storm after they spend enough time with me. Why? Why was I set to bare this pain, this anguish!?" The knife sank into his skin, blood darker then crimson shimmered as it dripped to the white carpet. A huge sweep of his arm and blood speckled the chair, the walls, the ceiling and floor. Nothing like the sight of his own blood. The TARDIS gave an anguished cry in the back of his mind, but he shushed it quickly. He didn't realize his voice had risen to a deafening scream. "I WAS A BLOODY FATHER, A FRIEND, A LOVER. I MEANT SOMETHING TO PEOPLE, TO MY PEOPLE. AND NOW?! NOW I AM NOTHING. I AM NOTHING." The knife bit into his skin again and again and again and it mixed with the tears that spilled singularly down his face.

"I just wanted a companion. A friend. Someone to care for me, to love me, to be there for me." His voice was broken and his vision hazy. He smeared his blood across the walls, the carpet, the ceiling, and lay in the large tin tub, lazily enjoying tapping of his life force escaping his weak shape. "I just, I was lonely. So terribly lonely. Why can't I just have this one thing? This one thing? Please?" His voice wavered and his eyes closed, sleep threatening around the edges.

He woke in a stained shirt, scabs littering his arms. His mouth felt like cotton, his heard buzzed and his hair was matted and sticky. His shirt was discarded, his pants and boxers with the rest. He stepped naked into the heated showered, adjusting the heads to settle against his shoulders and neck and back. And oh, how the Doctor cried. Deep, anguished sounds in both english and gallifreyan that broke the TARDIS's heart.

When all was said and done, the Doctor crawled into bed, closed his eyes and dreamt of Rose Tyler.


End file.
